


The Isle of Keys

by eag



Series: Voyage of the Muntjac [2]
Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Depression, Fillory, Gen, High King and Greatest Swordsman in all of Fillory with benefits, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Magic, Masochism, Mentor/Protégé, Other, Quests, Sex, Swordfighting, Voyage of the Muntjac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then there was a beach that was all made of keys, millions of them, and we had to go through them till we found the right one. There was probably a trick to that one, but no one could think what it was, so we brute-forced it instead—took shifts, trying keys on the key ring, round the clock. After a couple of weeks we got a fit."  Eliot, <i>The Magician King</i></p><p>Eliot learns that the trick to finding the right key is no trick at all.  Meanwhile Bingle trains Benedict in swordfighting.</p><p>Part of a series, but can be read by itself without missing very much, if so inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Or, The Brute Force Method

Month three. Eliot had resorted to keeping something like a journal, by hijacking the ship's log that Admiral Lacker had been working on and annotating it with his own snarky comments. He looked at the impromptu calender he had drawn on the inside back cover; it was just about 90 days now since they had sailed out from Whitespire.

90 days, and not a single key. Had he been able to flip over any of the bolted-down tables or perhaps even the entire ship with his bare hands, he would have.

Two days out from Truthwater (he had decided to name it that when even the two sad atolls off-shore turned out to have the same effect as the main island), they had stumbled upon a cluster of islands, each brimming with adventures and quests. And in due course, it turned out that none of those adventures or quests had anything to do with their own quest for the keys. Over the last several weeks, they had rescued a dryad from certain death by inundation from the salty sea; spent a day rebuilding a fairy village with flower petals, sparkly rocks, and magic glue; fought a man-eating cyclops (Bingle did most of the dirty work, with the application of some well-timed kinetic spells and ending with a quick, brutal stabbing); and talked a self-destructive sentient volcano into not exploding and taking everyone with it. And those were the interesting ones.

Eliot put his head down on his little desk and closed his eyes. After a few islands he had given up trying to settle these side quests, and only occasionally disembarked from the _Muntjac_ as necessary. Mostly he stayed in his quarters and read. He had gone through almost every book on the shelves in his room with an unfeeling mechanical pace, barely understanding half of what he had been reading. In the evenings, Bingle or Admiral Lacker would come by to coax him to dinner and give him a full report of the day. He would drink wine and eat, more of the former than the latter.

He was losing weight again. He could feel it, not just on his body, but in the way the others looked at him. The way Benedict tried to stay as far away from him as physically possible while on the same ship. The way the Admiral deferred to him without complaint and quietly changed orders behind his back. The way Bingle was particularly careful not to say much or demand much from him. Ever since they hooked up that one time after Truthwater, they had been fucking pretty regularly, but lately Bingle had been staying away, only coming over at night when directly asked. It seemed that even Bingle knew better than to expect anything from him beyond the basic niceties of table manners. It was annoying the way everyone was tiptoeing around him as if walking on eggshells, but it wasn't like there was anything he could do to stop them.

There was a soft knock on the door. Eliot hadn't heard approaching footsteps, so it had to be Bingle. Benedict was clumsy as hell and had only once come to announce dinner because everyone else had been busy. The other crew members clomped around like they were born in barns, and the very short Admiral Lacker wore heeled boots that clicked when he walked.

“Come in.”

Bingle let himself in, and stayed by the door, waiting for Eliot. Eliot sighed and dragged his head off the desk, straightening himself carefully. Bingle's face was impassive, but Eliot noticed a slight tenseness to his eyes. That's the thing about being on a ship with a handful of people for so long, Eliot had realized, was that you got to know everyone way too well, and you couldn't get away from anyone, not even yourself.

“Yes?”

“I have the day's briefing, Your Majesty.”

“Isn't it a little early for that?” Eliot snarled. “It's not even noon.”

Bingle ignored his outburst with characteristic stoicism. “Perhaps briefing is too strong of a word, but there's important news you should know.”

“Fine, if it's that important. What new and useless bullshit quest are we getting mixed up in today?”

“Actually, Your Majesty...” Bingle walked over to Eliot's side and knelt beside him. Eliot looked down, and recognized it as a ploy to force him to make eye contact. He looked away, glancing at the a bedside clock.

“We've found an island where the beach is made of keys.”

“Keys?” Eliot brightened up, and Bingle visibly relaxed. “Wait, what do you mean that it's made of keys?”

“The island itself is normal, with some signs of recent habitation and a forest, but...well, the beaches are all keys. Keys instead of sand or rocks.”

“All the way around?”

“As far as we can tell, but Benedict is doing the survey right now.”

Eliot thought for a moment. “How many of them are golden? Give me a rough percentage if it's impossible to estimate an actual number.”

“100%. All of them are golden.”

Two warring emotions ran through Eliot; excitement at the prospect of actually finding a key, and pure disgust at the prospective tedium of sorting out the problem. Eliot sighed. “All right. Let's go and take a look.”

*****

At least it wasn't cold anymore. They had sailed into a spell of pleasantly autumnal weather, similar to the weather Eliot had experienced before they went into Ember's Tomb. The island cluster they had been exploring looked like a chunk of the Oregon coast that had been snapped into many little pieces on the wide ocean, wooded and rocky, forested with pines, cypress, and willows. This new island that the _Muntjac_ had approached looked not much different from the others, except for what appeared from a distance to be a sweep of golden sand.

“Keys,” Eliot muttered to himself as he was helped onto the launch by Bingle, who knew better than to ask about what he was talking about.

The launch skipped merrily over the water, avoiding a jutting rock populated by sea birds. As Eliot watched, a seagull shit on the rocks and flew away. He knew it was already a bad day when he sympathized entirely.

The launch was pulled up alongside a makeshift pier. It was obvious that someone had been hard at work putting it up to keep Eliot's boots from getting wet. It was both extremely thoughtful and incredibly irritating to think that they were so concerned for him that they would do this. Not that Eliot hadn't griped the last time he got off a launch into the surf and spent the day squishing around in wet boots. Admiral Lacker's suggestion of waterproof work boots had been given a cold and contemptuous look; the man hadn't tried bringing it up again.

He hopped off the pier and landed on the hard surface of keys. As he walked around, keys clinked slightly underfoot. He had expected a pristine spread of keys, but many were filthy, marred by streaks of bird shit. Others were overgrown with algae and other encrustations. As the waves broke, keys jingled in the roiling surf. Some of them were so erosion-worn that they hardly looked like keys anymore.

Eliot looked up; Benedict was waiting for him, a rough sketch of the island perimeter in hand.

“Well?” Eliot looked about them grimly. 

“I walked around all morning, and the beach is about 3 miles long, end to end. It doesn't quite wrap around the entire island, mostly just this south side, before it turns into cliffs. There's a house up the hill, but no one's been there for a while. It's full of supplies though. And dust and spiders.” Benedict said steadily, though Eliot could detect a tremor in his voice.

“Yes, I can see the house; I want to know more about the beach.” Eliot couldn't quite keep the nastiness out of his voice, and he could see the effect it was having on Benedict, who stopped looking at him and started staring at the map.

“Well, uh, Your Majesty, it's just under two and three-quarter miles, and-”

“Oh, of course. Of course it has to be.” Eliot face-palmed himself, melodramatically. It had to be a number close to e. It probably was e. That wasn't a mistake or a coincidence; that was the Fillorian universe giving him the finger. 

Unnerved, Benedict continued, stammering badly. “So we dug a hole in the beach to see if it's just a layer over sand or rocks, but-”

“But it goes all the way down. It's keys all the way down, isn't it?”

“We didn't get very far, but it seems like it's not just a layer, unless it's a really thick layer. Maybe it's-”

Eliot took a moment to indulge in some choice words about the nature of their quest. Benedict took an uncomfortable step backwards.

“All right. Fine.” Eliot took a deep breath. “Fine. We'll do it the old-fashioned way. Let's take a moment to thank our dear sheeply makers the ram twins that it's at least a countable infinity.”

“Your Majesty?”

“It's all math jokes,” Eliot said bitterly. “Bad math jokes. Right. On to the task at hand.”

Eliot thought it over. With an infinite or nearly infinite amount of keys, the probability of finding the right one was pretty much zero. He'd have to do something to tip the probabilities in his favor. Perhaps it would do to spend the day walking around, trying keys at a whim. That was a better thought than using the brute force method; it was likely that if he had faith and a good attitude and turned that smile upside-down, he could probably find the key just by literally tripping over it.

He decided to try that first, to see if there was some kind of trick to it that could be puzzled out. Brute force would be a last resort.

“All right, I'm going to go for a walk and see what I can find. Have the men commandeer the house as a temporary headquarters. We'll take a little vacation there, and if the owners show we'll reimburse them.” At that, Bingle stepped forward, indicating that he'd follow. Eliot nodded acquiescence. It wouldn't do to be stabbed in the back by an unknown enemy while he was busy staring at some keys on the beach. “I'll see if I can't find this key by supper.” Even as he said it, Eliot felt that that was being overly optimistic, but it seemed to cheer the men up.

Eliot pulled out the magical key ring from his waistcoat pocket, and began headed east, picking up and discarding keys here and there as he went along.

Around noon, Bingle had pressed a marmalade and butter sandwich into his hand (about the only thing that he was eating with any amount of consistency these days) and he ate it absently without thinking, focused on the keys. Throughout the day, someone would come by with water or just to see what kind of progress was being made. Eliot ignored them all. Just after sunset, Bingle had stopped him by gently taking the key ring out of his hand. It was not likely that this warm and fuzzy “trust in Ember” method was going to work. Going by intuition and feelings was not enough.

By the time they gave up, Eliot's legs aching from hours of standing and repetitive squatting to retrieve keys, and he limped a little as they made their way back. Bingle had offered Eliot his arm, but Eliot had shrugged him off. 

He found that the house had been set up as their headquarters; it was incongruously lovely, like the picture of a Nantucket Island vacation home in a lifestyle porn magazine, with whitewashed walls, pale undyed linens, and dark wood gleaming in the lamplight. While Eliot had been searching the beach, it had been cleaned and aired out. It wasn't big; the whole upper floor was one modest bedroom suite, and there were two tiny rooms downstairs not much bigger than walk-in closets that had been set up for members of what might be considered the other members of the senior staff, Admiral Lacker and Benedict. Otherwise the men had set up in tents outside the house in a grassy clearing. But for the bearded, weathered sailors, it almost looked like the boy scouts had taken over somebody's grandma's front yard.

Eliot headed upstairs. He noted the makeshift cot set up near the top of the stairs, just inside the bedroom door: the bodyguard's bed. A small bundle of black clothes were folded neatly on top of it, and a sheathed sword was lying beside it. So much for privacy. At least it wasn't Benedict or the Admiral, but that didn't stop him from snarling to himself.

Many of his day-to-day things had already been moved in; his papers and books had been put on the desk by the window, fresh bedding was on the bed, and his clothes were hung up neatly. Some thoughtful person had built a nice warm fire in the fireplace and fixed up a hot bath for him in the bathroom. Tossing his clothes off, Eliot nearly melted into it.

The comfort was enough to bring tears into his eyes. The futility of the day had been basically horrible, and he could tell that this entire situation was going to be miserable. He foresaw a lot of stupid, useless drudgery to find the next key. He was exhausted, lonely, and yet could not stand to be around anyone. At least Bingle was smart enough to stay out of his of sight, but that didn't stop the swordsman from being ever-present.

A tap on the door. “Yes?” Eliot couldn't be bothered to yell at whoever it was to go away. He nursed his foul mood, resentful of intrusion.

“I've brought Your Majesty some towels.” Unsurprisingly, it was Bingle.

Eliot cracked open an eyelid. “If you're going to be playing towel boy, you ought to at least do it properly. Take off your shirt.” He expected Bingle to turn heel, but Bingle did as he asked, tugging off his uniform-like shirt without compromising the integrity of the things he was carrying.

“I brought Your Majesty the hair wash he favors,” Bingle murmured, playing it up, and Eliot couldn't help but grin, despite his foul mood.

“If you know that little tidbit, then you should know what to do with the hair wash,” Eliot said loftily, closing his eyes again, fully expecting to be ignored. But a moment later, warm water was carefully scooped onto his hair, wetting it, and strong fingers were massaging the wash into his scalp.

“Oh, that's good...” Eliot sighed.

Bingle worked in silence, washing Eliot's hair and massaging his scalp before moving onto his shoulders. Knots of tension that Eliot didn't realize had been building up were kneaded out by firm hands.

He got out of the cooling water and let Bingle towel him off, a much more brisk and businesslike affair than any of his actual towel boys. Eliot put on his travel robe, nothing near as ornate as his robe at the castle, but it was comfortable and comforting.

Dinner was waiting for him as he stepped out of the bathroom. Seared venison with a sauce made from stewed cherries and a healthy glass of red wine. Eliot wondered who set it up while he was bathing, and then decided he didn't care.

He ate alone, surprised to find himself hungry, enjoying the quiet, but for the soft sounds of water moving in the bathroom, and the sound of the sea.

Bingle stepped out just as Eliot was finishing up. Having washed up, Bingle's growing hair was wet and spiky, sticking up in a damp frazzle.

“As much as I appreciate it, and I'll have you know that I appreciate it very much, you do realize that you don't need to play manservant, right? That's not in your job description. There are actual guys I could order around if I need something done.”

Bingle shrugged it off, running a free hand through his hair. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. “I have been servant to many over the years, but none have I served with as much pleasure as you.”

“How long have you been practicing that little speech, Bing? You certainly know how to make a man feel downright kingly.” Eliot finished up and took the tray out, leaving it on the landing at the top of stairs. He closed the door and latched it. “Let me finish my glass of wine, and you and I can break in this new bed.”

Bingle bowed. “I thought you'd never ask.”

*****

An hour after dawn, Bingle made his cot bed neatly, dressed, and silently padded out of the upstairs bedroom, closing the door behind him, his sword buckled at his side. He nodded to the guards at the front door of the house and stepped out into the damp chill of the morning.

A seabird called distantly, but it was so faint that he could barely hear it over the surf. He took a long breath; when he let it out, it fogged up the air in a steaming cloud.

While he waited, Bingle went through his finger exercises, grouped by digits and rotations. He got up to 8th position left ring finger before Benedict showed up. Unhurriedly, he continued as Benedict came over to watch.

“I keep meaning to ask you why you do those,” Benedict yawned, practice sword slung on his back. He was mostly used to getting up early, but last night he had stayed up too late working on a map of one of the previous islands they had explored. The little fairy homes were a pain to draw.

“Grip. Flexibility. Strength.” Bingle moved onto the right pinky. “These strengthen the bones and tendons against impacts. Many swordsmen I've known were crippled as they grew older because of accumulated fractures over the years. And many more died because they couldn't keep hold of their weapon at a critical moment.”

“Oh. Do you think maybe I should try them too?”

“In due time. There are some other exercises you should be starting now.” Bingle finished with individual fingers, and began to run through the two-hand exercises.

“Right.” Benedict moved into the clearing and began to work through a system of basic exercises, ones for the back, the legs, the shoulders, the wrists, the arms, the waist...it was a drill Bingle was terribly familiar with, from a famous alpine monastery in the Nameless Mountains. He had done a progressive series of those exercises for a year and a day, outdoors, no matter the weather. They were terribly effective; Bingle found them more useful than the Longhand Shadow technique the monastery was famous for; he had come away stronger and more flexible than he had ever been in his life.

Bingle watched Benedict as he worked through the basics, correcting errors as Benedict struggled through the forms. It was hard work, but the payoff was already visible; the boy's arms and legs were already showing signs of firm muscle underneath the skin. Bingle looked on with approval.

Benedict finished with a showy move, bouncing up onto his feet with a rising handspring.

“I didn't teach you that one.”

“I learned it from watching you,” Benedict blushed. “It's just using momentum in the right way.”

“Good. Then you're learning from observation.” Bingle touched the hilt of his sword. “Shall I test you on what else you've learned?”

Benedict ran to pick up his practice sword.

Bingle taught by going through rotations of offensive and defensive waves. There was a certain experiential vocabulary that he felt was necessary for swordfighting, a certain amount of moves that had to be seen, experienced, and repeated before even the most basic mastery could take place. They warmed up with some simple parries and thrusts, and once the flow moved easily between the two, he upped the difficulty.

“Point,” he snapped, and Benedict's eyes brightened in such a way that Bingle couldn't help but smile.

Bingle retreated to a defensive position, making a series of basic, simple errors to see how Benedict would press the advantage. Once Benedict followed up on the errors, spotting and seeking them, Bingle upped the difficulty of the errors, making them harder and harder to spot until Benedict had trouble getting through his defense.

“Counter,” Bingle called, and the line of Benedict's mouth tightened in a flat line as Bingle began to attack, first with simple and obvious thrusts and feints, then growing ever more complex as Bingle pushed forward. Bingle was pleasantly surprised; Benedict had not made a single mistake in either wave. He pushed Benedict back until he could tell the boy was almost overwhelmed, and then drew back, giving Benedict a moment to recover.

“Counterpoint,” Bingle beckoned, and Benedict's eyes flashed as he circled Bingle, looking for an opening. 

“Take your time,” Bingle said, “Beginnings set the pace and the tenor of your battle. You must fall into the habit of looking for the opening, wherever and whenever it may be. The greatest problem is deciding when to start. Too obvious of an opening might be an invitation to a trap or merely the sign of a poor swordsman. Too difficult of an opening might mean you'll need other methods than the sword to survive. Never presume.”

“Never,” Benedict licked his lips, and from the way he was holding his sword, Bingle could tell the boy was unsure.

“Your sword speaks too much,” Bingle noted. Immediately Benedict's grip changed, and far fewer of the boy's feelings were being transmitted through the line of steel.

“Be as blank as the metal of the sword once was before it was a sword. It should transmit nothing in counterpoint. Before then, do as you like, but once we are in counterpoint, reveal nothing except firmness of purpose.”

“Yes, Bingle.” Benedict took a deep breath and let it go, shifting his stance. Bingle could feel the familiar, welcome tension rise, and a moment later steel clashed against steel.

*****

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Benedict had nearly thrown the sword away when he landed a blow on Bingle, hard enough to make the swordsman give a yelp of surprise. Benedict had only hung onto the blade out of sheer instinct and countered Bingle mid-attack before Bingle knocked the sword out of his shocked hand.

“Good job.” Bingle smiled, sheathing his sword in a smooth motion before nursing a rising bruise on his left shoulder as Benedict fluttered over him. 

“Did I hurt you? Are you all right?”

“No, no. This is good,” Bingle chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. “First blood, and not by accident. We should celebrate.”

Benedict grinned broadly. “Really? Is that something to celebrate?”

“No,” Bingle was honest. “Usually first blood is...much uglier.” Bingle frowned at an old memory. “But for you, I think you should be proud. You've improved. But now you'll remember that when you take the sword in hand, even a blunted one like your practice sword...you must be prepared to hurt someone or risk death.”

“Oh.” Benedict sat down suddenly on the grass. “I didn't think about it like that.”

“It's easy to forget,” Bingle knelt down, putting his hand on Benedict's shoulder, meeting his eyes. “'What is written with a sword...”

“'...cannot be erased.' Yeah. I know.” Benedict sighed. “I'm really sorry, Bingle. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“No, Benedict. Don't apologize. You did mean it. Because if you didn't, it would mean that you don't value your life.”

“Oh.”

“From now you have to decide,” Bingle said simply, “Whether you want to continue or not. It's fine to say that you don't have the nerve for killing. Many don't, when they first realize that the sword is not a game. Ultimately it's meant for protecting one's life or taking another's life. Think about what you want to do. But we should celebrate anyway. I'm proud of your hard work.”

“I want to continue. I really do. W-what should we do to celebrate?” Benedict stammered, a mess of contradictory feelings.

“Perhaps I can get us a bottle of wine, just for ourselves.”

“Really? How?” Benedict blurted it out before he could stop himself.

“I have my ways,” Bingle got up and offered Benedict his hand, hauling him up. Benedict blushed as he picked bits of grass off his pants when he realized that Bingle must have been talking about Eliot. It wasn't like he hadn't heard them through the floor late last night. They had been at it for a while, and it had distracted Benedict from his fairy houses. Benedict hadn't even guessed anything could go on between the two, but after last night...once he realized what those sounds were, he felt like he had been the most naïve and innocent person on the face of Fillory. The memory filled Benedict with a strange feeling that was more than just embarrassment.

When Benedict finally looked up, Bingle was already gone and Admiral Lacker was calling out for a meeting in his big booming voice. Benedict ran back toward the house.

*****

An empty woodshed furnished with a table and a lamp, a chair, several buckets (a couple labeled “Discards”), a piece of paper with a grid tacked onto the outer wall, and a predetermined area to dump the wrong keys. Eliot gazed upon his handiwork and was pleased with what he saw. Admiral Lacker had gathered the men around, and Eliot stepped out to address them.

“All right.” Eliot pointed at the various objects in order. “Checking keys, finding keys, dumping keys. 24 hour rotation, two hours per shift, one shift a day. If you're not working on keys, I expect that you're either doing chores or resting. Folks, we are going to be living in a world of keys until we find what we're looking for. We'll start in about a half hour, at ten. Everyone grab a bucket and fill them with keys, picking at random. Try to avoid keys that are extremely damaged. Bring them back and line them up outside the door. I expect to never see any empty buckets outside this door. Let's get moving.” 

Bingle checked the rotation. Eliot had taken the first shift of the day at ten, giving him the noon shift. Benedict went afterwards, and as for the rest, the shifts showed foresight and thoughtfulness; the usual night crew worked the late night shifts, and the morning crews in the early morning.

“Thank you for setting the shifts so we can still practice,” Bingle bowed to Eliot.

“Of course. It's the best part of the morning, after jam on toast,” Eliot leaned casually against the woodshed. They watched the crew members head off down the beach. “Tell me how lessons are going.”

Bingle looked pleased. “Benedict is a better student than I could ever hope for.” 

“Good. He seems better now that he's working with you. Happy. Polite. You're making a new man out of him. Well, a man, period. Though...goodness, that boy could use a haircut. How he manages to fight with those bangs, I cannot imagine. It's a terrible look on him. On anyone, really.”

“I think everyone could benefit from a haircut,” Bingle ran his fingers through his own hair, longer than he liked. He preferred it close-cropped, but hadn't had much time to deal with it since they had found the island cluster.

“I respectfully disagree master swordsman, only because I highly doubt anyone here has the stylistic proficiency and artistic sensitivity it takes to cut my hair,” Eliot said lightly, tossing his wavy locks back. “Perhaps I will grow it out, just long enough to tease it into a mane. Like Alexander the Great. What do you think, Bing, do you think I could pull off a Sun King look? Lion King?” 

Bingle recognized an inside joke that he didn't understand when he heard one. “I find whatever Your Majesty chooses to do to suit you well.”

“That's the spirit,” Eliot grinned. “Keep up the flattery; I need it to live.”

Bingle smiled back, glad to hear Eliot sounding flippant and arch; it was significantly better than the foul mood the king had been in for the last several days.

Unfortunately, it didn't last.


	2. Chapter 2

The quest started cheerfully; they were living in an extremely comfortable situation compared to life aboard the ship, and fresh food was plentiful. Twice that first week, Eliot had usurped the cook's job and made dinner for everyone, cheerfully stirring a giant pot brimming with pasta found in the house's enormous basement stores, while Admiral Lacker played an unexpectedly competent sous chef. 

But by the beginning of the second week, Bingle could tell the pressure was piling up again. Eliot didn't spend much time out of his quarters, but for key-related matters. Morale was low. People grumbled as they checked keys. The pile of discards was growing and growing; they had to find a new place to dump the keys.

Bingle, who normally didn't dream, was even starting to dream about keys. It was hopeless, monotonous work. No one particularly liked it except perhaps Eliot, who often had to be shifted away from it by sheer force. Bingle expected that if there weren't eleven other men to share the burden, Eliot would have checked by himself, night and day. He seemed predisposed to a naturally higher endurance for problem solving than average mortals; Bingle expected that was what set high kings apart from the rest.

But it was taking its toll.

Every day, there was a two hour block where Bingle could not keep an eye on Eliot, and those two hours worried him. Eliot was prone to disappearing down to the beach during that time, citing his need for privacy, though for practical purposes he stayed within view of guards. After asking Benedict to tail Eliot once, Bingle knew that Eliot was just out on the shore, bucket in hand, picking out keys in the roiling surf and talking to himself animatedly about methods of elimination and probability. Or so he had heard.

After those two hours, Eliot would return with a half-bucket of keys, hand them to Benedict to check, and stand over Benedict, not bothering to mask his impatience. At first, unnerved Benedict so much that he could hardly keep the magical key ring steady, but after a few days even Benedict was too worn out to care, systematically going through keys, hardly noticing that Eliot was standing over his shoulder.

Once those keys were exhausted, Eliot would head back to the house, eyes fixed. He would stop by the kitchen table and pick at the luncheon set up for him, and go upstairs to read for the rest of the day. Nights were the worst; after dinner, assuming Eliot would deign to make an appearance, which he often did not, Bingle would find Eliot sitting at his desk, silently doodling over the log book or in bed with a book, the room lit unnaturally bright with magic. Bingle had been taking to staying away until the lights went off, only coming in when he thought Eliot was asleep.

Even training was grinding into frustration; for all that Benedict had been improving by leaps and bounds, after the day Benedict managed a hit, he had begun to plateau, just below a level that Bingle would consider competent. It was normal; there was a certain amount of fitful starts and stops that any learning process encompassed, but he could tell Benedict was discouraged 

As for himself, Bingle was growing concerned. Having done a lot of unpleasant things in the course of his training over the years, he had picked up a great deal of patience and a high tolerance for bad situations, keeping his goals in mind, but even this was starting to grate on him. He was starting to grow restless; sometimes he found himself heading out into the forest for long solitary walks instead of tending to his duties. And he was beginning to realize that if not for the ship and the vast eastern sea, he would have been tempted to leave everyone behind and begin his own private journey anew.

He recognized it for what it was; falling into bad old habits that were hard to break. He could see signs of it all around; sailors with too little to do gambling away their spare time, Benedict slipping back into his safe little world of maps and sullenness, and even Admiral Lacker, who at times could be seen chewing on his fingernails with an distracted look of displeasure.

So Bingle did what he always did when confronted with a difficulty: he chose between leaving and fighting. Since he had no choice about the former, he chose the latter. It took a day to strategize and gather materials, and then he made his attack.

“Wake up,” Bingle gave Eliot a little shake the next morning, just after dawn. “Come, Eliot. We have work to do.”

“Is it ten already?”

“No.”

“Then go away,” Eliot turned over and pulled the pillow over his head. But a moment later, he sat up, putting the pillow aside, tousled hair the color of dark honey falling in soft waves around his face. “Is there an emergency? Did they find a key?”

“No, not yet.”

“Do you know what time I went to bed last night? This is too early.”

“I do, Eliot, and it's not. You've been asleep in bed for almost ten hours.”

“Didn't I make some royal decree about not waking me up at the buttcrack of dawn? Wait, Bingle. What are you wearing?” Eliot rubbed his eyes, coming awake slowly. 

Bingle plucked at the hem of a woolen tunic belted around his waist and stepped back, letting the charcoal gray cloak swirl around his leather-clad calves. “I found some clean clothes that fit in a storage chest downstairs,” Bingle said. “What do you think?”

“It's not bad. It's not the most stylish look from this season's Swordsman's Quarterly, but it's also not an affront to two thousand plus years of sartorial design.” Eliot looked at him carefully. “I think it counts as a success, though you could use some tailoring in the shoulders for a better fit, and maybe some darts in the back so it sits better around your waist.” 

“I will talk to Couble, if you're willing to let him know what to do.” That was the sailor that did most of the maintenance of the sails, a man who grew up in a seafaring family but had trained as a tailor as a young man.

“You should. And I will. I won't have you looking like so much country yokel about my royal person. Remind me why I didn't have you outfitted better in Whitespire, as befitting a member of the royal retinue.” Eliot didn't seem as angry about being woken as Bingle would have thought; it seemed his plan was working, though he endeavored to tread carefully.

“We didn't have time to go to the tailor.”

“Yes, that's right. It was only about a day and change. Remind me why Quentin didn't have you outfitted better, as befitting a member of the royal retinue? Oh wait, I just answered that question. Because Quentin.”

Bingle nodded patiently, listening.

“Well, if that's what it takes,” Eliot sighed. “I'll talk to Couble for you later.”

“Thank you, Eliot.”

Eliot's eyes narrowed, and Bingle could feel something inside of him tense, as if ready for a fight. “What happened to 'Your Majesty?”

“You still are. But sometimes you're also just Eliot.”

Eliot frowned, expression growing dark, but Bingle proceeded. 

“I need your help,” Bingle said plainly, and he could tell that it startled Eliot out of his mood by piquing his interest.

“Help? With what? What could you possibly need my help for?”

“Just dress and come along. You'll understand.”

*****

“Bing, please tell me you didn't drag me out of my warm bed just to look at your new outfit. Because while it is a nice change of place from that boring black thing you wear all the time, it could have waited and we could have stayed inside where it was warm.” Eliot caught his cloak around himself tighter, shivering in the morning chill. Thin clouds wisped above their heads, and the sound of the surf came and went like the pulsing beat of a heart.

“Of course not. It's an important matter that requires your supervision. This is the best time of day to get it done, before the distraction of our work at hand. Your Majesty,” Bingle added, now that they were out within earshot of other people.

“Ah, that's better,” Eliot said, and Bingle quirked a little curious look at him.

Before either of them could continue, Benedict came out, mouth lax with sulkiness, his eyes looking bleary and glazed. He carried the practice sword on his shoulder; something about how he was carrying it made it seem exponentially heavier than it was, as if it was weighing him down. He tensed when he saw Eliot, and shot Bingle a glare as if Bingle had betrayed him. Bingle ignored him.

“Put that down,” Bingle directed, and laid his own sword on the ground near a big tree stump. Benedict moved sluggishly, setting his practice sword down in such a way that it was nearly thrown. It thumped onto the dew-damp grass.

“Now sit,” Bingle pointed. 

“Aren't we training today?”

“We've discussed how you'll address His Majesty with more care,” Bingle snapped.

“I wasn't talking to him, I was talking to you! You're being unfair-” But then Benedict just glared and slumped down on the stump, kicking his heels against the flaking bark.

“I'm not babysitting, if this is what you're after,” Eliot began, and then Bingle pressed a pair of scissors into Eliot's hands. 

“I'm trusting you,” Bingle said, closing Eliot's fingers around the handle of the scissors. “It needs to be done.”

“Wait, you're cutting my hair? I didn't say you could-”

Bingle silenced him with a glare. “What did we say yesterday about you improving?”

“That I had to listen to you if I wanted to do better,” Benedict's shoulders slumped even further, as if he was trying to retreat into himself. His eyes grew distant. 

“Then trust my judgment.”

Eliot's experience with cutting hair was fairly limited, but he knew some of the theory from observing many years of his own regular haircuts. In practice, other than grooming the family dog, his experience was mostly limited to cutting Quentin's hair. After all, when they had come back from Brakebills South, he had cut Quentin's hair for him one hot summer afternoon. The result was more than respectable.

“Clever, Bingle. Very clever indeed. How long have you been planning this?” Eliot unfastened his cloak, handing it to Bingle. He picked up a folded piece of discarded sail off the stump, patched over many times, but recently cleaned. Shaking the folds out, he draped it lightly over Benedict's shoulders and began to look at the general topography of Beendict's head, trying to come up with a strategy.

“It had to be done, and I couldn't trust anyone else to do it right.”

“Of course. Though next time, let's not do it just after dawn.”

Eliot paused, considering his approach to the problem. When he began, he started at the front where he lopped off those long floppy bangs with a few very satisfying snips.

Benedict made some sounds of displeasure, and Eliot grinned at Bingle. “There, I've been wanting to do that for months. Now Benedict. No fidgeting. There, that's better. Don't make me mess up and slice your ear off.” Eliot went at his own pace, easy but meticulous, relying on his own innate instincts to do things correctly in one try. As he snipped, it grew incrementally warmer, which he was glad for.

Bingle watched, weighing his words carefully. “There is a certain significance to doing transformational acts early.”

“Oh? You're sounding like one of those monks you trained with. Let me guess. New beginnings and whatnot?”

“Something like that,” Bingle watched as Eliot snipped. “I hope Your Majesty will not be offended when I ask you do do for me the same.”

“Nonsense, Bing. I'd be honored to cut your hair. Perhaps I'll apply for the official shipboard barber position. That guy, what's his name, Matty...”

“Mato.” 

“Yes, him. He does a pretty good job, but I think I could beat him on style. After all, it's not as if he's ever had access to an issue of Esquire, not that I had much to do with anything that conventional, because I am classically trained in my fashion sensibility. All right, what do you think? I feel like I could do more if I had an electric razor. It really could stand to be shorter, like a buzz cut.”

Eliot had cropped Benedict's hair into a short, spiky haircut. It brought out the beauty in the boy's bones; he had been hiding lovely cheekbones and a well-formed skull underneath that mop of black hair. Bingle was reminded that Benedict had come from a major clan of the Fillorian nobility, though the boy had never spoken much about his family.

“I see what you mean, Your Majesty. Perhaps if it was shaved, it would-”

“No, no. No. This is perfectly good. I don't want to be bald. I'm fine.” Benedict wiggled out from under the sail, scattering shards of clipped black hair. He touched his head carefully, a mournful expression on his face. 

“Is there a mirror?” Eliot asked, but even then Bingle was picking up his sword.

“Here,” he beckoned Benedict over, unsheathing it halfway and tilting the blade so Benedict could see his reflection in it.

The boy touched his head carefully, and brushed off a few stray hairs that had clung to his temple.

“Jesus Christ.” The boy spat it out, a curse.

“Even if you don't like it, you should thank His Majesty.”

“No...I mean. Jesus Christ.” Benedict shook his head. “This is...actually kind of good. It looks...really good.” He tossed his head without meaning to, from habit, and was surprised by the absence of the weight of his hair.

“No more hiding, Benedict,” Bingle said softly, so that only Benedict could hear, and then he sheathed his sword and set it back down. Picking up the discarded sailcloth, he shook it out and wiped off the scissors for Eliot. 

Instead of draping the cloth around him, Bingle stripped down, pulling off his cloak and tunic until he was bare-chested. He caught Eliot sneaking a look at his nipples hardening in the cool air, and he sneaked a tiny, secret smile at Eliot.

Bingle sat down, and after a moment, the familiar feel of Eliot's fingers caressed through his hair, moving it this way and that. Before long, he felt the light tug of Eliot's fingertips as they pulled sections of his hair straight and the tingly, buzzy feel of shears clipping through his hair.

For years, Bingle had cut his own hair. What he did was purely utilitarian, artless, always with a mind for the needs of the fight. Long hair gave an enemy a natural handhold, beards too. He had traded his own ability to grow a beard ages ago for a beautifully abstracted sword form, a poem in movement that incorporated all the fundamental elements of force and balance into a two minute form that took more than half a year to fully master. The time he saved shaving gave him more time to train. He never missed it.

“I've been thinking that you need a new look too. I'm glad you found new clothes,” Eliot talked as he worked, pausing in between snippets to consider what he was doing. “What you normally wear is so drab. All business and no style. Were you ever in the military, Bing?”

“Not in Fillory,” Bingle replied. “There was a brief stint in some distant lands to the south. That was more press-ganging than actual service, but I escaped.”

“I always wondered if you had been in the military. That black thing you always wear.”

“Adopted it at the mercenary's guild. Purposes of profession.”

“Right, like a business suit. What did you do there anyway?”

“Enforcement,” Bingle said briskly, glossing over some of the worst of his activities with one word. “I wasn't there long. I left over a year ago.”

“But I heard you and Aral were both from the mercenary's guild.”

“Just Aral. They like to claim me as one of their own, though. Sometimes they still ask me to do work for them.”

“Do you?”

Bingle shrugged. “It depends on what's being asked.” He brushed stray hairs off his arms and shoulders after Eliot finished. The shorter, dark brown strands were a light sprinkling over the long black locks that Benedict had shed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” He bowed, and at his prompting, Benedict did the same.

“Give it a look. See if you like it,” Eliot suggested. 

Bingle did the same for himself as he did for Benedict, sliding out his sword to use it as a makeshift mirror. He didn't really care how he looked; he only looked to show Eliot that he appreciated the work, but it was as though Eliot had brought out something in him that he hadn't really noticed before. Something about the shape of his new hairstyle had brought out some interesting features of his face, accentuating the good. He seemed more distinctive, less anonymous. 

“I look...handsome.” Bingle felt foolish saying it, but it was the truth, and he knew Eliot would appreciate it.

“You were always handsome.” Eliot smiled at Bingle fleetingly before turning to look at the slant of the rising sun along the length of the beach, and back at the house. “If you boys don't mind, I need a hot cup of tea and some toast. I wonder if we have eggs...”

Bingle bowed. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Though...next time not so early.” Eliot wandered off. Bingle kept an eye on him until he entered the house.

“Time to work.” He gestured for Benedict to begin his exercises while he himself pulled his tunic back on.

*****

More than a week past the day of the haircut, they were still nowhere near finding the key. Bingle finished his shift with a sigh and wearily handed Benedict the magic keyring. They didn't talk, merely passed the keyring between themselves before heading their separate ways For him, the two hour shift was the worst part of the day, hopeless toil that resulted in nothing other than a few buckets of discards. He worked through them as fast as he could; at least his hands weren't tired like many of the others.

But it was his duty, and if nothing Bingle was a man of duty. It wasn't worth doing if it wasn't done right. He made his way upstairs to get his dueling foil; usually an hour or two of long fencing forms cleared his mind from the stress and monotony.

The door wasn't latched, and Bingle slipped inside, barely making a sound. He planned on getting his sword and leaving. He fully expected Eliot to be napping. After all, Eliot had given up on hand-picking keys days ago, and usually retreated to his room after his shift.

But Eliot was wide awake. What's more, he was obviously waiting for Bingle.

“Bing. You're exactly the man I was waiting for.” Eliot was standing naked before the bed, right hand languidly stroking his erection. Bingle closed the door and latched it so quickly that he hadn't even completely realized that he had done it until it was shut.

“Your Majesty,” Bingle quickly turned to Eliot and bowed, flustered.

“Call me Eliot. In fact...why don't you call me something that isn't so genteel. Something more wicked.”

“Pardon me?” Bingle looked Eliot over cautiously.

“You heard me.” Eliot beckoned. “Why don't you call me names. Pull my hair. Slap me a little. Whatever. I'm yours to do as you like.”

Immediately, it was clear that Bingle knew what Eliot had asked him; those hooded eyes gave a flash of understanding, and he could see Bingle hesitate, something that he hardly saw at all. It gave him a perverse pleasure to discomfit the swordsman.

“Come on, Bing.”

“I...I'm not certain that's a good idea, Eliot.” Bingle's hand reached for the door.

“Fine. If you must be like that, then it's an order.”

Bingle came forward and it was almost too fast the way he moved all at once. Eliot found himself pinned against the wall, a strong hand in his hair. His erection went from hard to excruciatingly hard all at once.

“Is this what you want?” Bingle's voice had a sound of resignation to it.

“Yes...” Eliot's voice was barely a whisper. His eyes were bright with need. “Make me beg. Please.”

Bingle tensed and his eyes narrowed, but he did as Eliot asked.

*****

Bingle's grip on the back of Eliot's head was unrelenting, and Eliot's hips jerked, his untouched cock twitching. He knelt on the bare floor, cold and hard under his knees. It was like he had never been so aroused, as he gagged and choked on Bingle's cock, trying to keep up with Bingle's pace.

After what felt like almost too long, Bingle let him go, fingers untangling from Eliot's hair. There was a faint soreness to his scalp where Bingle had gripped his hair; he wasn't surprised to see a few loose threads in Bingle's hand, which the swordsman shook off, unconcerned.

Eyes glazed and mouth slick, Eliot looked up to Bingle, whose body was a lean line of tension, his hooded eyes narrowed. 

“I want to fuck you, Eliot,” Bingle said calmly, almost clinically. He ran clever fingers through Eliot's hair gently, without catching in the wavy strands, caressing his sore scalp. 

“Then why don't you? Stop talking and get on with it,” Eliot muttered, tartly, and was rewarded with a tiny stinging slap, one that made his breath catch. He could tell Bingle was holding back, which Eliot wasn't particularly pleased about, though he was proud that despite everything, Bingle's erection was hard, unflagging. He had done that to Bingle; he was continuing to keep the swordsman's arousal and attention.

“On the bed. And down on your face,” Bingle ordered.

“Let's do it standing. Or on the desk,” Eliot countered, and Bingle slapped him again.

“I said, the bed.” Bingle pulled him up; standing, Eliot was taller than the swordsman whose eyes were level with Eliot's throat. Eliot looked down at Bingle, before making his way slowly toward the bed. Bingle swatted his rear, a stinging smack. 

“Get going,” Bingle commanded, but Eliot took his time, seeing if it would goad Bingle into hitting him again. Disappointingly, it didn't.

Eliot laid down with a sigh, his erection stiff and sore against the cool sheets. Bingle took a long time, making Eliot wait, and he could feel the anticipation building until he couldn't take it anymore.

“Hurry up,” Eliot said.

“No.” Whatever Bingle was doing, it was taking too long. Eliot turned his head to look, but then Bingle's hand came down and pushed his face into the bed.

Eliot smiled to himself. His legs were shoved wide, and slick fingers thrust into him carefully, working him gently.

“Don't be like that, Bing.” Eliot warned. “I don't want you to hold back.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Bingle countered.

“I don't care if you do,” Eliot said lightly, wondering if he'd regret it.

“As you like, Eliot.” And Bingle's fingers thrust in hard, in just the right place, and Eliot came with a gasp.

“Bad. Very bad,” Bingle said, stroking his free hand along the long curve of Eliot's back as he swung onto the bed, his weight depressing the mattress. “I expected you to last longer.”

“What can I say,” Eliot shuddered, and then briefly lost his train of thought. His cock softened in the damp pool under his belly. “You ought to punish me.”

“Is that what you want?” Bingle kissed Eliot's shoulder, and pressed his cock against the fingers he hadn't withdrawn from Eliot.

“Yes,” Eliot choked on the word as Bingle began to slide his cock in alongside his sheathed fingers. For a moment, the pressure and the stretching was almost unbearable, and then Bingle was thrust in to the hilt and his hands were pinning Eliot's arms to the bed.

“You can't always have what you want.” Bingle was gentle, taking his time with long shuddering strokes.

“You forget your place,” Eliot sighed. It was good, but not what he wanted. He could feel his cock stirring again.

“You forget yours.” Bingle bit Eliot's shoulder, a little nip that made Eliot jerk against him.

“Harder, Bing. I want you to make me feel it.” It wasn't the first time Eliot had said something like that to Bingle, but the context...it was all different, and Eliot was starting to regret the whole thing even as he said it. In fact, it felt like everything had taken a turn for the worse somehow, and he couldn't exactly figure out how.

“No.” Bingle kissed Eliot's shoulder, a light press of lips. 

“Don't make me beg...oh, clever. All right, I'm begging you. Please.”

“No.”

Annoyed, Eliot pushed up onto his knees, jerking his hips against Bingle, trying to get him to change his pace. Bingle paused as his rhythm was interrupted.

“Really now.” He sighed as Eliot ground his hips back up against him.

“Really.”

Bingle let go of Eliot's arms and grabbed his hips in an iron grip. He thrust in hard, almost carelessly, and Eliot could feel it deep inside and it almost hurt him.

“Yes...yes, like that.” Eliot's cock leapt up with a twitch. “Again...more.”

“If this is what you want,” Bingle said, and he began to fuck Eliot fiercely, mechanically, without concern for Eliot. It was almost frightening and toward the end it hurt, but Eliot came anyway, jerking off into his hand as Bingle's teeth came down the junction of his neck and shoulder, and the swordsman came with a snarl.

When Bingle came to himself, there was a rising bruise on Eliot's shoulder. In fact, there were more than a few bruises. Eliot's hips were black and blue where Bingle had gripped him, the dark marks of Bingle's fingertips standing out on the pale skin. Bingle flinched; he hadn't meant to really hurt Eliot.

When he moved, he realized he had drawn blood. There was a little speckling of it on the white sheets, and it made Bingle's heart thump in an unpleasant way. It reminded him...

“Mmm. Bing.” Eliot winced as he turned over. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

Bingle looked away.

“What's wrong, Bingle? Didn't you have fun?” Eliot's eyes sparkled with malice. It was a side of Eliot he hadn't known; he had only seen the playful, arch side of Eliot, the one that had drawn him out of his seriousness, but he hadn't quite known this side of Eliot existed, malicious and manipulative.

“Eliot. You can't ever ask me to do this again.” Bingle stood up. He went and cleaned himself off, and then came back with a damp towel for Eliot, cleaning up carefully, trying to ignore the faint smear of blood among the other fluids.

“No? Why not? Didn't you have a good time? I did.”

“Whatever games you liked in the past to punish yourself...I won't be a part of them.” Bingle tossed the towel into the corner of the room, before dressing quickly and retreating out the door.

Eliot sighed, glad that Bingle hadn't stayed to hash it out but felt oddly disappointed. Was it in Bingle or in himself?

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke, it was past sunset. Bingle came in wordlessly with a lamp and the dinner tray. He set everything up the way Eliot liked, an elegant spread of silverware and china. 

“It's roasted waterfowl tonight,” Bingle said carefully. “Did you want white wine or red?”

“Depends. Is it more like a duck or a goose? And what's it served with?”

“Goose. With dried apples and mushrooms.”

“Then the white. You know the one I like.” Bingle went off to fetch Eliot's wine, and Eliot stood up, stretching out sore limbs as he slipped into his robe. He noticed a line of individual bruises along his hip, and then another matching set on the other side.

What seemed amazingly hot earlier in the day felt like a loathsome testament to his foolishness in the low lamplight. Suddenly he felt a deep sense of regret.

What he had with Bingle...it wasn't love by any stretch of the imagination; that was something they held in honesty between each other. What they had was much less complicated than romance. High king and royal bodyguard with benefits. But upon reflection, it was the closest thing to a healthy relationship that Eliot had had...possibly ever. And he had risked destroying it all in a selfish, self-destructive act. Perhaps he already destroyed it. All because he was bored and he wanted to feel something that wasn't boredom and loneliness and some other feelings he wasn't about to admit to having. 

He could remember the look on Bingle's face earlier that afternoon, shocked and tense, as if Bingle had retreated into himself. The flat, careful tone of voice...

Bingle came back with a glass of wine and set it down. He went back downstairs without a word, without prompting, and Eliot sank back into his thoughts without touching his dinner. He had the wine though.


	3. Chapter 3

Miserable, miserable, miserable. The words echoed through Eliot's head like a mantra. Eliot sank back into his daily ritual time-wasting, mostly with books and the ship's log, especially since Bingle had been casually avoiding his company. Whatever it took to kill 22 hours to get to the next block of key checking. At least whatever it took to kill time that didn't involve talking to the sloth, though he had been almost tempted once or twice. 

Eliot walked down the stairs into the basement storehouse, calling up a light spell because he was too lazy to light a lamp, even though the spell took longer and was more complicated than finding and putting match to wick.

It bobbled behind him like a child's balloon, towing slightly above and behind his left shoulder as if tugged along by an invisible thread.

He had decided to look for something ridiculous that he knew probably didn't exist, but it was worth a shot. All he wanted was a can of condensed milk; he would brew his tea stronger, add some spices, and call it Thai iced tea. Except there was no ice, but he could cool it on the kitchen sill. Or perhaps cast some sort of ice spell and drop that in – no, that was a Janet thing, and besides, magical ice didn't taste particularly good.

“Now, if I were a castaway from a parallel dimension, where would I hide?” He went through the racks meticulously, and his search reminded him of the weird and wacky things from Earth that often could be found in Fillory. Many books he had found in Fillory had been written on Earth; he was currently plowing his way through Anna Karenina, and one time he even found a copy of The Wandering Dune in the Whitespire library, which he promptly had banished. When he was going through keys on the beach, he had found a vintage Chrysler key, probably made in the 1940s. 

“So by all rights there ought to be condensed milk,” he muttered to himself as he went around the racks to the other side. Pickles, preserves, jams, jars of potted and mysterious meats...all sorts of goodies abounded, but no condensed milk, not just yet.

And that's where he found it, and forgot promptly about what he was looking for. 

Gingerly, he pulled out the dusty bottle from between a big jar of what looked like pickled quail eggs, and another jar of whole pickled frogs. He dusted off the label with the heel of his palm; it was an old, sealed bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. 

“Well, I know what I'm doing tonight,” Eliot paused for dramatic effect. “Lo and behold, it's already tonight.”

Cheerfully, he made his way upstairs.

*****

Eliot got drunk that night, drunker than he had been in ages. He couldn't remember the last time he was this drunk. Probably New York City, before they had gone to Fillory that first, fateful time. Of course, it was bad form to drink alone, but Anna made good company, since Bingle was off to god knows where and he wasn't about to drink with Benedict or Admiral Lacker. Spoilsports, they were. They couldn't possibly appreciate good old Johnnie. Now that was a fine, red-blooded American gentleman.

He got to the part where Anna dreams about the threesome and he laughed so much he fell out of the chair with an ungainly thump.

The scotch was smoky in his mouth, almost a burnt, bitter taste, reminding him of so many packs of Merits, smoked under so many trees on so many days at Brakebills, rain or shine. The fresh smell of the sea came in through the open window and mixed with the warm piney scent of the fireplace, and he just wished to god that he had a cigarette, just one scorched kiss of burnt tobacco in his mouth and lungs. 

He let out a breath, and giggled. “Oh, Anna. Girlfriend, you got it baaaad...”

Of course, his falling out of bed didn't go unnoticed. Bingle was already at the door before he had decided on trying to get up or not. Eliot decided against it; up would take effort he didn't want to expend, and besides, the thick sheepskin rug on the floor was just too nice to leave. 

“Eliot...?” Bingle's nose wrinkled; the room probably reeked of booze, but Eliot didn't care. It was nice not to care for a while. Everyone deserved a vacation from themselves sometimes, right? Especially when they had been so very, very good for so long. Too long.

“Oh, Bing. I...I'm afraid you've found me in a state of pure, absolute dereliction. Do us a favor and don't tell on me to Mother, all right?” Eliot giggled inanely. It was funny to see Bingle at the door, a martinet in scarlet, looking like a headmaster disappointed in his prize pupil. It wasn't the first time Eliot had seen that look, but he hadn't expected to experience it after Brakebills. So much for putting the past behind.

“Eliot...” Bingle quickly came over to help Eliot up.

“I'm fine. Leave me alone. You take too much upon yourself that is not your responsibility,” Eliot tried to wave him off. “Bingle, your services...are not welcome at this particular time. Unless you want to drink with me. Then your services would be most appreciated.”

“I'm sorry, Eliot.” Bingle caught him under his arms and dragged him up with a strength that Eliot hadn't guessed the smaller man had. Pushing back the bedding with a free hand, he put Eliot into bed.

“You ought to be sorry,” Eliot muttered, too lazy to try fighting him. Exhausted, he fell back among the bedding. It was soft; and the shift of the mattress as his body settled made him a little queasy. Not too bad, for not that much scotch. It was like he had turned into an absolute lightweight, an utter pussy once he had been sailing the high seas for over a quarter of a year, coming up on one-third. At this rate, it meant that he could get a few more nights out of that bottle. 

“I am. I hate seeing you like this.” Bingle pressed a cold palm to Eliot's cheek. It felt lovely; Bingle must have been outside again. “Shall I fetch you some water?”

“That's because you don't know me.” Eliot glared. “This is who I am. You've only been seeing the PG-13 version. Except when we're naked. That's definitely NC-17.” Eliot laughed at his own dumb joke. If only Quentin or Janet was here; they'd drink with him and laugh. They didn't judge him. They weren't stuffy Fillorians who didn't know the meaning of fun.

“Perhaps you can't hide from your past, but...” Bingle looked thoughtful. “You can't run from difficulty.”

“I am not running anywhere. As it is undeniably clear that I can barely get my feet going.”

“You're running from the difficulty of being you.” Bingle leaned back against the heavy wooden bedframe.

“Don't you dare,” Eliot snarled, the good mood slipping away, as if it had never been his to begin with. “You can't say that.”

“Yes I can. Because I know from experience.. And because you won't remember tomorrow.” Bingle pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

“You're playing with fire, Bingle. You don't know how good of a memory I have. Because I can assure you it is better than you can even imagine.”

“I'll bring you some water.” But Bingle didn't move, staying by his side.

The anger ran its course like a quick fever; it seemed too much to hold onto, like trying to capture an armful of water. Eliot's eyes closed. Had he always been this tired? It felt like he could never be not tired. “Remind me to fire you tomorrow.”

“Of course, Eliot.” Cool lips brushed his forehead, the corner of his mouth. Someone undid his clothing and carefully undressed him, even pulling off his silk socks. It was nice sinking into the soft cotton sheets, his naked limbs veritably caressed by the fabric. He gave a little moan of pleasure.

The light went off, and Eliot slept, deep and dreamlessly.

*****

The next morning, he woke up with a pounding headache, and his mouth tasted like misery and death. Eliot opened his eyes; it was full daylight and Benedict was sitting by his bed.

Benedict looked away as Eliot looked over, and then wordlessly offered Eliot some water. Eliot realized that it wasn't because the boy wasn't making eye contact again; it was because he was fetching water.

Eliot sat up and immediately regretted it as something in his lower intestines cramped up all at once. Reaching for the water, he found his hands shaking badly, and Benedict helped him steady the glass up to his lips.

“Where's Bingle?” Eliot rasped, and winced at the reverberation of his own voice through his skull.

“He's checking keys.”

“Is it noon already?” Eliot gulped the water and signaled for Benedict to pour him more. Benedict did so, pouring the cool water from a glass carafe.

“It's just past noon. He did your shift, and now he's doing his.” Benedict's hands were warm and firm, slightly calloused. For some reason, Eliot had expected them to be clammy and floppy.

“Shit,” Eliot was about to get up again, but then he thought better of it. There wasn't much he could do, and with this headache, there wasn't much he wanted to do. 

“He had the ship's doctor make you some willow bark tea,” Benedict continued. “It's cold now though. Oh, and he sent me here to make sure you're comfortable. He said you weren't feeling well.” Benedict frowned; it was obvious that of the things that he wanted to do today, this was the lowest possible item on his list.

“I think I'll have that tea now.”

“Do you want me to warm it up?”

“No, I don't care.” Eliot took a deep breath. The shaking in his hands wasn't as bad as it was when he first woke. He took the mug from Benedict and drank. It tasted like bitter, bitter poison and immediately went to war in his stomach with whatever else was in there, but he managed to keep it down, though it was a close thing for a few seconds. Carefully, he laid back down.

“Are you okay?” Benedict actually looked concerned. “If you're really sick, I can get the doctor-”

“No. I'm not sick. Just stupid.” Eliot closed his eyes, trying to piece back together the night before. Most of it came back easily; he remembered being mad at Bingle, but this morning, it seemed that much of that anger was just foolish and petty. He glanced over at where he had left the bottle and the glass; they were long gone.

“Oh.” Benedict sighed, getting it all at once. “Yeah. I know. Um. My father...was a drunk.”

“Your father?” 

“He...he was a Fenwick, obviously. But my mother wasn't. She was just a bar maid.” Benedict stared at his hands, and it seemed like that the awkward, sullen kid came back all at once. “He came and took me away when I was about four or five. I guess he didn't have any other children and he was thinking I could be his heir. Not that it really mattered because he was a younger son of a younger son. I think he just wanted to feel important. Maybe he was competing with his brothers or something. I don't know exactly. I grew up at Whitespire. After he died, no one really wanted me around, so I ended up getting into maps and I got an apprenticeship. The old cartographer I learned from...he wasn't that nice, but he was really thorough.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” Benedict fidgeted. “Lately I'm just starting to figure out it was basically a shit way to live and that I should just forget about it all. I'm glad I'm here. You...you should be too.” 

Eliot gave him a sharp look. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Strangely, Benedict didn't back down. But instead of fighting him, Benedict's eyes lit up with a wonder that Eliot didn't know the boy was capable of. “This whole adventure. It's incredible. Even when things are stupid or we're all yelling at each other or it's rainy and cold, and the ship is just making me really sick. Sure, this current search for the keys is annoying, but everything else around it...I'm learning how to fight and I'm getting really good, and you...you're the king of everything, and you've got Bingle and...well, I don't know why you wouldn't be happy to be here.”

“Who says I'm not happy?”

Benedict gave Eliot a look, as if to say that he wasn't about to let Eliot get away with bullshitting.

“If you were happy, you wouldn't do things like drink so much,” Benedict said. 

“How do you know that?” 

“Experience.” Benedict shrugged. He looked away, out the window, down at the beach. It was empty but for a lumbering pelican; all the work and key checking happened on the other side of the building.

“Perhaps you have a point.” Eliot sighed. “You know, I've never heard you say so much in one sitting.”

“I don't have much to say,” The way Benedict was sitting in his chair, shoulders hunched and arms around his knees, made him seem like he was trying to retreat into himself, like a collapsing dwarf star after it had emitted its share of high-energy radioactive brightness.

“You did just now.”

“That's different. That's just...dumb past stuff that no one should have to sit through. I'm not like you guys. Like heroes and kings. I'm just a stupid kid King Quentin gave a commission to, and I'm not even really qualified for that commission.”

“Sure you are. Your maps are great,” Eliot managed a smile. “And if you keep up the training, someday you'll be as good as Bingle. Maybe even better.”

“I guess.” Benedict shrugged. 

“Benedict...you-” Eliot sighed, about to say more, but then he changed his mind, not wanting to drive the boy away by getting too deep into feelings. He changed the subject. “See if you can get me some dry toast, all right? Ask them to cut it very thin and toast it very crisp. Three slices, plain.”

“Sure.” Benedict got up and picked up the carafe, refilling Eliot's glass and setting it on the chair so that it was close at hand. “I'll be back.”

Eliot closed his eyes briefly, trying to will away the headache. Already he could tell that this was one of those slow-moving days that dragged on lethargically only to sprint for a few hours and then drag again. Eliot gave up on Anna Karenina, at least for now. She was just going to have to wait to see if her lover was coming back. Just like he was going to have to see if his love for Fillory was coming back.

After Benedict came back, he didn't stay much longer than he had to. Once he had made sure Eliot had nibbled down his toast, he excused himself to get back to work. But before Benedict left, Eliot had him bring a book over from the shelves, any book.

It turned out to be a school library edition of The Once and Future King, bound in a puffy hardcover pressboard, stamped on the inner cover with the name of a Catholic school. He didn't read it; just tossed it off the bed and closed his eyes.

He remembered skimming it when he was a kid, but he couldn't quite remember the details of the story. He tried to come up with some ideas for the gist of the plot, but it got mixed up with childhood memories of that Madame Mim song from the old Disney movie, being forced by his brothers into watching the Indiana Jones movie, and memories of Quentin and Josh quoting extensively from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

It reminded him of bits and pieces of things he had seen or read growing up about the Holy Grail. Did anyone ever find it? Was it actually a thing that could be found? He couldn't quite remember. In his mind, all he heard was Quentin asking Josh if Janet weighed as much as a duck.

“Goddamnit,” Eliot said aloud to the empty room, and turned over, pulling the covers over his head. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

By the time he was feeling better, it was already evening. He got out of bed and half-tripped over The Once and Future King. Irritably, he kicked it aside, took a long hot bath, dressed, and went downstairs.

Dinner was being served by the time he came down; no one referenced his absence or batted an eye; it was like any other evening. They were having braised boar with rosemary and pinenuts, served over roasted wild vegetables. It was almost fine dining, but for the occasional shards of bone he pulled out of the meat; Fillorian cuisine had a certain learning curve that extended to ignoring inevitable bits of marrow and cartilage. He surprised himself by having two servings.

He sat in his usual place, next to Admiral Lacker and across from Bingle and Benedict. Their base at the small house meant that they only had one weekly meal with the entire crew outside, but most of their daily meals were small private affairs, carried out at the kitchen table. Everyone ate the same thing; it was all cooked in a big pot outside, but portions were specially delivered to the command staff. Two sailors served the meal; ostensibly they had already eaten. 

Benedict poured wine; he had been learning how to do it neatly, and without hesitating, he poured everyone a glass before sitting down.

It was turning out to be a nice, quiet evening. After dinner, Eliot did something unusual and stayed downstairs to play cards. Benedict talked a little, asking their opinion about including the mounds of discarded keys in the map he was making of the island. Admiral Lacker popped some popcorn, and Eliot taught them how to play poker, only barely resisting from changing the rules to strip poker when he remembered that he didn't particularly want to see the Admiral naked. It was like something even nicer than the platonic ideal of camping, with fresh food, beds, baths, and not-unpleasant company. 

They went to bed early; Admiral Lacker had the eight o'clock shift and he liked time to drill the day crew in callisthenics before then. Eliot went upstairs by himself; by the time he had undressed and hung up his clothes, Bingle had come in.

Bingle did as he normally did; check the bathroom and closet for intruders, and then once secured, latch the door. Satisfied, he sat down on his cot by the door and pulled off his boots and socks.

“Wait, Bing. Come here,” Eliot gestured, belting his robe.

“Your Majesty?” Bingle came and stood beside the bed. Eliot indicated that he should sit, and Bingle sat down.

“I'm sorry. About today. And last night. And that other day. Well, everything,” Eliot began.

“It's fine. I'm not upset,” Bingle said, deliberately misunderstanding Eliot's words. “I see now why you like checking the keys so much. It's like gambling, not knowing when you'll win.” 

“I didn't take you for a gambling man, Bing.” Eliot was secretly relieved; Bingle had essentially forgiven him or at the very least wasn't holding it against him.

“If I wasn't, I wouldn't have picked up the sword.” Bingle looked at Eliot curiously, and Eliot could tell he was wondering what Eliot wanted.

“Good point.” Eliot put his arm around Bingle's waist, turning Bingle slightly toward him. “I didn't mean what I said last night. You're not fired.”

Bingle blinked. It was obvious he didn't expect Eliot to remember. “I didn't think I was. I'm sorry for underestimating you.”

“You're a good friend, Bingle. I...I'm lucky to have you. You and Benedict both. And...really, everyone. Sometimes I don't know how I deserve any of this.” Eliot looked down at the floor; the golden cover of The Once and Future King caught his eye.

“Because you're a good man and a great king.” 

“That's not idle flattery, is it?”

“Do I seem like an idle flatterer?” Bingle leaned forward and kissed Eliot. It was his way of saying that enough had been said. Eliot drew him close and then drew him down onto the bed.

*****

It had grown cold overnight. The fire died out sometime in the middle of the night, and icy air had filled the room through a half-open window. When Eliot woke, he found that Bingle was still in bed with him, curled up against his back. That was a first; Eliot had never woken up before Bingle, and Bingle had never stayed the night. Then again, Eliot had never woken up this early; it was still dark outside.

It was like nothing had ever gone wrong between them. Eliot turned over and put his arms around Bingle. Bingle was warm, and Eliot stroked his soft dark hair, keeping him close.

He tried to remember why he was awake, and then remembered that he had been dreaming. In it, Quentin and Josh and Janet were all galloping along in the countryside, pretending they were riding horses. He of course, was riding an actual horse, but he was leading them onward. Someone had been following them, clopping along with hollowed out coconut; was that Bingle or Benedict? He couldn't remember exactly.

They had come across a great castle; above it shone the image of the Grail. But it was a disappointment when he went in; room after room was diligently searched with nothing to be found, though temptations abounded. Eliot made a face; he hadn't even seen the damned movie, and here he was dreaming about it because of Quentin and Josh.

Then he suddenly remembered something. In the Grail quest, the knights had to be pure of heart. Those who weren't were doomed to fail. Following the course of the quest like a faithful innocent, not trying to solve its mysteries with detective work. He couldn't remember if the knights actually ever found the Grail, but that was not the point.

He was right the first time, only he hadn't gone into it wholeheartedly, or even half-heartedly. He had still tried to solve it, tried to puzzle out the probabilities. And so far it was obvious that brute force was not the way to go. If he wanted to find this key, he would have to be pure of heart. Failing that, he had to have the right attitude, that faith in the quest itself would resolve matters. He had to set aside his unhappiness and let fate guide him. He had to be enthusiastically involved. Otherwise they would be trapped here until they died, digging ever deeper holes in the beach looking for the right key.

The epiphany left him trembling with anticipation, and it woke Bingle.

“I didn't mean to stay.” Bingle took in a long, yawning breath. “It was cold.”

“It's fine.” Eliot pressed his lips to Bingle's hair. “You've been keeping me warm. I'm getting up now though. Stay here; there's something I have to do.”

Of course, Bingle didn't stay, gritting his teeth against the cold as he dressed. They slipped out of the house in the gray pre-dawn light, past the yawning guards at the door. 

“What are you looking for?” Bingle asked, as they turned away from the beach into the forest. Above, birds were stirring and calling to each other, and Eliot caught a glimpse of a rabbit disappearing underneath a bush as they walked through the shadowy forest.

“A transformational act.” Eliot smiled at him, and hurried up a steep hill, trusting his instincts to guide him.

It ended at a cliff that overlooked the sea and the beach; from this elevation, the beach looked like thick line of gold drawn along the dark sea. As the sun rose, the rosy dawn light caught the beach ablaze in a fury of gorgeous light. Eliot wondered how he had never noticed. 

Bingle kept a respectful distance. Eliot looked around; there were bird nests all around him, hollows dug into a layer of pebbles lined with tufts of grass and discarded down. The birds had no fear of the two men; he reminded himself to order the foragers to leave them alone.

Some sleepy birds were on their nests; some nests were left alone, unguarded, insulated from the chilly morning by warm coats of fluff that shivered in the morning wind.

One egg had somehow rolled out of its nest; he picked his way over carefully, and rolled it back in. Something about the nest caught his eye; he knelt down gingerly for a closer look. Mixed in with grass and down were strands of black and dark brown; Benedict and Bingle's hair from that day of the haircut. They had never bothered sweeping it up; the birds must have been lining their nests with the stuff.

Eliot smiled to himself and stood up, and as he did so, his back foot dug into the pebbly surface for traction. Something clinked underfoot. He lifted up his boot.

It was the golden key.

**Author's Note:**

> Misinterpretation of some of the canon is intentional. This is to reconcile the contradiction of the brute force method with Eliot's talk with Quentin (Chapter 19, Magician King) about faith. To make it work, I decided that it was possible that Eliot was an unreliable narrator in front of the crew at the feast in Chapter 17. 
> 
> For those interested in what happens after finding the right key at the end of the story, Eliot sneaks it into one of the buckets, and lets Admiral Lacker "find" it. It's easier doing that than causing a full-scale mutiny with the truth, that perhaps Eliot could have found it right away with the right attitude. Now the true story behind finding the right key is just a secret that Eliot and Bingle have between them. 
> 
> I'm interested in the dynamic between Eliot, Bingle, and Benedict, and how they affect each other in turn. 
> 
> Miscellany: Some of Bingle's fighting terminology comes from a corrupted reading of original Latin meanings for music terminology. The conceptual method of his techniques are based on plotting the elements of "force, balance, leverage, momentum" onto the cardinal directions (North, South, East, and West). Even his finger exercises follow that principle, with ordinals thrown in so that there are 8 positions per finger and many possible combinations using the basic positions.


End file.
